


i'll take care of you

by Freshnonsense42



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Nightmares, Allusions to Supernatural Trafficking, Established Relationship, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Panic Attack, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Then, canon adjacent, just be gentle with yourself, self-care, some of it didn't, some of it happened but in a way i approve of more, some of the stuff that happened in canon happened here, stereklyric5, sterekweek2019, suicidal actions and ideology, taking care of each other, the tags are gonna be intense but it's not very graphic, this is like canon if canon weren't what it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 04:13:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21155423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Freshnonsense42/pseuds/Freshnonsense42
Summary: The ways Derek and Stiles take care of each other, which is really just ways Derek and Stiles love each other.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Pylades: I'll take care of you.
> 
> Orestes: It's rotten work. 
> 
> Pylades: Not to me, not if it's you.
> 
>   
-Euripides, from “Orestes”, An Oresteia (trans. Anne Carson)
> 
> Couple things:
> 
> 1) Monroe didn't exist and there was no supernatural vs human war or whatever.  
2) Stiles did go to the FBI and left when he found out Derek was on the run for murder.  
3) The big bad for the series finale was just some supernatural monster. Something that was crossing state lines and was the reason Derek was being hunted. What was it? Doesn't matter.  
4) I don't actually know what happened to the insurance money in canon.  
5) Some of the crap the characters went through in the show was also dealt with in a slightly healthier way. They're still messed up, but not to such the nth degree.

_I’ll take care of you._

The last time Derek left Beacon Hills, he made it all the way to the Mexican boarder before he thought ‘fuck this’ and turned back around. He would always be drawn back to Beacon Hills. Why fight it? 

He didn’t know if he was drawn to it because of his history and the Nemeton, or because Stiles stayed. Derek knew without being told that the only reason Stiles left was because he got into the FBI. Anything less than the dream and Stiles would have stayed.

He could say anything he wanted about getting the hell out of Dodge, but Derek knew better. Stiles would have stayed or he would have come back. He felt too much responsibility for the citizens of Beacon Hills and for his father to stay away.

When Derek returned, he had snuck into Stiles’ bedroom, for old time’s sake, and sat in his armchair to wait on him. Stiles had opened his bedroom door and seen Derek sitting there, but he hadn’t flailed. Instead he’d gone still and stared at Derek for long minutes. Until he brought his hands up and counted his fingers out loud.

Derek told him that he was real. Stiles said that he was just verifying that. After all his fingers were accounted for, Stiles had sat at his desk without further questioning. Derek had appreciated that quiet acceptance of him back in Stiles’ life.

That return to Beacon Hills had been two years ago. Stiles still lived with his father, which made the most sense. John and Stiles weren’t wolves, but they were wolf-like. They used different words, but it all meant the same thing. Family for pack, dad for alpha, son for beta, hug for scent marking. They wanted to be near one another and Stiles couldn’t afford to buy or rent a house in his dad’s neighborhood. 

Which meant, Derek was in Stiles’ childhood bedroom while Stiles did research on the latest supernatural nuisance. The main difference between now and then was the sheriff knew about Derek’s presence. He didn’t know what had made the sheriff decide that Derek was an acceptable person to hang around his son, but he was relieved. Too relieved to risk asking about it. 

Derek glanced at Stiles over his own book, supposedly related, but Derek suspected it was busy work. Stiles probably didn’t know enough about the creature to pass out materials. Stiles was hunched in his desk chair, a deep furrow between his brows, his pen shoved into his mouth, as he stared at his laptop screen. 

It had been three hours since Derek had arrived. He tried to remember if Stiles had moved in that time. “Stiles, when’s the last time you stretched?”

Stiles didn’t flinch at the words, in fact he barely acknowledged them. After a long moment he said, “Hmm.” 

“Did you eat dinner?”

“Hmm.”

Derek closed his book and tossed it onto the bed. “When’s the last time you ate?”

“Hmm.”

Derek took a few minutes to stretch himself. He kept his eyes on Stiles, but the movement didn’t draw Stiles’ attention. He crossed the room to frown at Stiles’ desk. “You don’t even have a glass of water. You need to hydrate.”

“Hmm.”

“Idiot,” muttered Derek as he stormed out of the room. He was more angry with himself than with Stiles. He should have remembered to check on him sooner. Stiles was an adult, yes, but he was also the worst at taking care of himself. 

The Stilinski household outside of Stiles’ room was familiar to Derek now. He came over for dinner occasionally. John invited him over to watch whatever sports season was in progress. Stiles hosted pack night from time to time. 

He wasn’t afraid to enter the kitchen and dig through the fridge until he found ingredients for a sandwich. There wasn’t even any hesitation about making himself a sandwich. God knew Stiles stole enough food from him for Derek to take a sandwich. 

In the middle of making the third sandwich, because once Stiles ate he would eat ravenously, John entered the kitchen. He glanced at the food and shook his head. “He still wrapped up in his research?”

Derek made eye contact with him and said, “Hmm.”

John laughed, well aware of the standard Stiles response when he was too deep in his head to respond. “Is this part of a sneak attack?” He took a piece of turkey and tossed it in his mouth. “Stealth food?”

“That’s part of the plan.”

“Good luck with it. He’s not the easiest to break out of an internet spiral.”

Derek snorted. “He’ll come out if he knows what’s good for him.”

John clapped Derek on the back as he made his way to the fridge. “It’s that kind of thing,” he said casually, “that makes the grocery clerks think you’re a serial killer.”

“I thought it was all the arrests,” commented Derek dryly. It had been long enough that he could joke about most of them. Sometimes.

John grabbed a beer, a can of coke, and two water bottles out of the fridge. The beer was for himself, one of the waters was for Derek, and the rest was for Stiles. Derek didn’t like beer, the alcohol had no effect on him and he didn’t like the brand John bought, and Stiles would be more likely to drink something if you started him out on soda. Derek grunted in thanks when he set them on the counter by him.

“That probably didn’t help,” he said. “But I think Stiles was onto something. He said you have trouble sounding like you aren’t threatening someone." John took a drink and stared at Derek thoughtfully. It was something the Stilinski men both did from time to time. They were detectives at heart and always hell bent on solving the mystery of who someone was at their core. It used to make Derek uneasy, but now there was something almost comforting in the look. Then he added, "You smile sometimes now, though, so that helps.”

Derek started cleaning up the mess he made with a sigh. “Cora told Stiles to call me Der-bear. It’s what she and Laura used to call me when they wanted to infuriate me. The other day in the grocery store, Stiles yelled it at me from three aisles over. Everyone thought it was hilarious.” 

Derek scowled as he shoved the aioli sauce away. When he had complained to Stiles about all the things people were whispering about him, Stiles had been unmoved. He claimed it was better than them calling the cops because some asshole was trying to murder them with his eyebrows. All it really did was make people think they could approach him. 

“He doesn’t think it’s fair,” said John abruptly. Derek paused with the fridge wide open and a head of lettuce in his hand. He frowned at him, questioningly. “Stiles. He doesn’t think it’s fair that people are suspicious of you when you do so much for the town.”

Derek put the lettuce away and shut the fridge door thoughtfully. Then he shrugged. “I don’t do any more than the rest of the pack.” John raised his eyebrows. “We all try to keep everyone safe.”

After a moment, John shrugged. “You’re the only one they’re wary of, though.” Derek scoffed. After all the time he’d spent on the fringes of society, he didn’t care anymore. People were difficult anyway. John held his hands up in mock surrender. “I’m just telling you what Stiles says.”

Derek harrumphed. “I’m gonna take this up to him.”

“Sure. Guest bedroom’s yours if it gets too late.” Derek hesitated then nodded. 

John had started offering Derek the guest room almost immediately after he returned the last time. So far, Derek had never accepted the offer. He usually stayed until Stiles passed out then went home. Or he stayed up all night with Stiles. Something about staying in the guest room felt like too much. Derek wasn’t even sure too much of what, he just knew it would be too much. 

When he returned to Stiles’ bedroom, Stiles hadn’t moved. He was like a living, breathing statute. Derek maneuvered the many drinks around until they were spread out across the dresser. Then he set the plate of sandwiches, minus one for himself, on Stiles’ keyboard. 

Stiles blinked. He stared at the plate, so Derek took the opportunity to press his screen back as far as possible without breaking the laptop. It wasn’t much, but if he could get the words far enough out of Stiles’ line of sight, it would help. 

“What’s this?” Stiles asked, his voice rusty with disuse. He cleared his throat and leaned back, grimacing. 

“Food.” Derek set his own sandwich on a napkin on the dresser and snagged the coke. He opened it and set it beside Stiles. Stiles stared at it like he had no idea what he was looking at. So Derek said, “Drink,” to head off that line of questioning. 

Stiles stared at it for a long moment, then looked up at Derek solemnly. “Is it poisoned,” he asked, because he always asked, because he was a dick. 

Derek rolled his eyes. Instead of answering, he manhandled Stiles out of his chair. Stiles’ squawk turned into a groan as he stood. “Stretch.”

Stiles lifted his arms above his head obediently. “I was right in the middle of something, dude.”

“You’ve been in the middle of it all day. By the time you figure it out you’ll be malnourished, dehydrated, and sore. Not exactly helpful things to be during a fight.”

Stiles mimicked the words back at him. Then he bent over and groaned, loud and long. Derek leaned against the wall and watched him go through various stretches. Normally, Stiles was decent at keeping himself stretched out and fed while he worked. This was the result of many alarms on his phone, mostly. Sometimes he got too caught up to remember to either set them or obey them. He always regretted it when he didn’t.

“What did you make,” he asked as he finished his stretches. 

“Turkey sandwiches. I finished up the last of it.” Stiles did the bulk of the grocery shopping still. He didn’t trust his father not to try to sneak contraband into the house. 

He grimaced at the sandwiches. “There’s no way I can eat all this.” He took an enormous bite out of one of them. Around the food he informed Derek, “I’m not a bottomless pit. Unlike some lycanthropy inclined people I know.”

Derek stayed standing as he ate his own sandwich. He knew that Stiles would finish everything he’d made him. There was no point in arguing over that again. “Fine. I’ll eat it.”

Stiles curled himself around the plate protectively and hissed. Derek watched him with the corner of his mouth ticked up. “I will bite your finger off. I _will_. It’ll grow back.” 

Derek rolled his eyes. “Tell me what you’ve been looking at,” he said. It would distract Stiles away from his laptop, but keep the information fresh in his mind. 

Stiles settled into his chair and did just that.

* * *

_It’s rotten work_. 

The last time Derek slept well his family was alive.

He slept, but it was usually fitful or for short periods of time. It wasn’t uncommon for him to fall asleep at 7 PM and wake up again at ten. Then he’d fall asleep again around 3 AM and wake up at five, in time for a morning run. Usually he fell asleep sometime during the day for another handful of hours of sleep. 

It was too routine to be annoying now.

When his phone rang at 3:39 AM on a Wednesday, Derek woke up on high alert. The only reason anyone called him now was because of an in progress life-or-death emergency. If it were a run of the mill emergency, they would text. 

When he saw Stiles’ name on the screen, he fell out of bed to search for his clothes. Stiles _ranted_ against the evils of phone calls. Derek had witnessed Stiles asking Siri to text Scott for help during a fight. 

Which meant Derek could be forgiven for the breathless worry in his voice when he answered. There was mostly silence on the other end. But Stiles’ heart raced rabbit quick, his breath came out in short, shaky catches, and there was the slightly congested sound of someone having just cried. 

Derek froze long enough to say, “Stiles?” 

He sucked in a deep breath and said, “Sorry,” in a rush. His voice shook and it spurred Derek into motion. He snatched a pair of jeans out of his hamper and jumped around the room trying to jam his body into them. “It’s not a big deal.” Lie.

“This is so stupid.” Truth. “I shouldn’t have called.” Truth. “What the fuck am I doing? It’s the middle of the night and I woke you up. Fuck. I meant to call my dad.” Lie. “He’s on the night shift.”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” said Derek as he snatched his keys off the kitchen island. 

“No. Dude. It’s- it was _nothing_.” Lie. Interesting. Stiles usually believed it when he said things like that. “It was just a night,” his voice caught on the word. He huffed impatiently. “It was just a nightmare. I’m fine.” Lie. “Seriously, I’ll just call my dad.” Lie. “I- I meant to call him anyway. My finger slipped. Y’know, Dad and Derek. You’re right next to each other in my contacts.”

Derek didn’t even need Stiles’ heartbeat to know that was lie. Stiles had Derek listed as Grumpy Bunny, because Stiles thought he was funny. 

“Well you called me,” said Derek as he tried to hook his bluetooth up to his car. Stiles and Lydia had both shown him how to do it. He got it right about half the time. “I wasn’t asleep anyway.” Stiles wasn’t the only one who could tell a baldfaced lie. “I’m already on my way, so you may as well just talk to me.”

Stiles took in a shaky breath and let it out slowly. His heart had slowed down some, but he still sounded stressed. There was no way Stiles would be able to calm down and sleep now. Not if he’d had a nightmare that led to a panic attack and was alone in the house. 

“It was just a nightmare. I can deal with it,” he said it with fierce determination. As though he could overcome this through sheer force of will. If there was one thing Derek had learned over the years, it was that you couldn’t will your trauma away. “This was dumb."

“Stiles,” interrupted Derek, “you don’t _have_ to deal with it alone.” Stiles’ breath caught in his throat. “_We_ can deal with it.” Stiles cried and insisted he’s fine and he was sorry for ruining Derek’s night because he’s so fucked up. Derek did his best to offer soothing words while also letting Stiles get it off his chest. Sometimes Stiles just needed to say things so he could move on. 

By the time Derek pulled into the Stilinski driveway Stiles had calmed down enough to stop crying. Derek let himself into the house and told Stiles to meet him in the living room. The last thing Stiles needed was to be confronted with his bed. Stiles didn’t hang up as he left his room, stopped at his dad’s empty room to steal his comforter, and headed downstairs. 

Derek met him there with water bottles and orange slices. Stiles smiled wanly at the fruit Derek shoved into his hands. He turned the tv on, the volume low while an infomercial played. They sat on the couch together, Stiles wrapped up in his dad’s comforter, in silence for a moment. 

When Stiles was halfway through his orange and had drank a little water Derek asked, “Do you want to talk about it?”

He paused mid-bite briefly then shrugged. “I- can we just”-

He broke off with annoyed grunt. One hand reached up to tug at his hair as he searched for the right words. Derek waited. Patience was something else he’d managed to hobble together over the years. 

“Not right now?” Stiles said it like a question, without looking at Derek, as though he expected Derek to argue with him. To insist that the only way to heal was through discussing what was wrong. 

That might be right. Derek didn’t know. But he knew that he had never wanted to talk about his own issues when he was younger. It wasn’t until he knew that there were people around (Stiles) to listen that he’d started wanting to talk. 

That was the first time he left Beacon Hills. 

“Ok.” He’d be around if Stiles ever wanted to talk about it.

Stiles settled more firmly into the comforter. Then he glanced at Derek and said, “Uh, you can- you can bitch about what we’re watching. If you want.”

And Derek did. 

* * *

_Not to me, not if it’s you._

Derek’s family had had money. It was partly because they’d been pack for generations. That was a lot of adults living together and pooling their money for decades. It was also partly because the Hales were show-offs. They liked successful careers and that usually equalled money. 

Even after his desperation to get rid of the insurance money and giving Peter and Cora basically everything, there was still a lot of money left. Derek used it primarily to help the pack out. They all had jobs and lives of their own, and he didn’t want anyone _dependent_ on him, but he tried to help out where he could. 

Ostensibly, they were all pack. It should be natural for them to pool their resources and help one another. None of them had ever had a pack before, though, so most of them felt uncomfortable by this ideology. Derek tried to respect that even if he didn’t understand it. 

John was a civil servant. 

Claudia was sick for a long time before she died. 

Stiles and John had both stayed in the hospital too often. 

Stiles had that stint at Eichen House. 

Stiles was in college and worked sometimes and made very little money. 

It all added up to the Stilinski’s having money trouble. Neither John nor Stiles ever complained about it. They almost never even acted like they were struggling to make ends meet.

And Derek just _had_ all that money, which had only grown from years of Derek not touching it. 

Paying everything off barely made a dent in his account. His accountant had been horrified by the ‘loss’, the same way he’d been horrified when Derek transferred most of the funds to Peter and Cora. The only reason he even had what he had was because Cora had put a significant amount of it back in Derek’s account. 

While talking to his accountant, Derek had mentioned buying a plot of land and building a house. He’d had no idea a human could pale that much that quickly. The pack needed a base of operations, though. Somewhere with more room than the McCall or Stilinski house. He hadn’t finalized anything, much to his accountant’s relief, but he liked the idea. 

Derek expected backlash from his actions. He assumed John and Stiles would both yell at him. One, or more probably both, of them would try to set up a system to pay him back. Derek would take their money and put it immediately back into their accounts. Lydia had helped him figure out how to do that through what he was sure were highly illegal means. 

Stiles storming into the loft wasn’t a surprise. 

Stiles slamming his hands on the kitchen island and yelling, “You can’t be in love with me,” _was_ a surprise.

Derek stared at him, shocked. Stiles had never been angry about Derek loving him before. It was possible he had crossed a line, but it wasn’t as impressive as it seemed. It was more like Stiles giving Scott $100 than anything else. Noticeable, but ultimately manageable. 

“I’m not asking you to love me back,” he said, softly. 

“Well fuck you,” snapped Stiles, “I’m already in love with you. But _you_ can’t love _me_.”

Derek leaned over the island to glower at Stiles. He was willing to put up with a lot of crap, but not this. Through gritted teeth he said, “I’m entitled to my feelings.”

“Oh my god, Derek!” Stiles threw his hands up in the air. “Loving me is the worst idea _ever_.”

“Too bad. I love you anyway,” he said, like a threat. He didn’t mean it like one. 

Stiles wavered. “I- I’m not good enough.”

“You are for me.”

“You deserve”-

“I want you,” interrupted Derek. “You don’t have to want me back, Stiles. But that doesn’t mean you get to tell me to stop loving you.”

Stiles eyes shone suspiciously as he stared at Derek. “I’m not worth this kind of love,” he said hoarsely.

Derek circled around the island, but didn’t touch Stiles. He wasn’t sure if Stiles wanted that or not. They stood with less than a foot separating them and stared at one another. “You are to me,” said Derek. Stiles made a noise like a wounded animal. 

Then he flung his arms around Derek’s shoulders and buried his face in Derek’s neck. Derek clung right back, barely remembering to watch his strength so he wouldn’t crush Stiles. 

They kissed and something tight in Derek unfurled. He hadn’t expected Stiles’ love, but he was happy to have earned it. 


	2. Chapter 2

_I’ll take care of you._

The thing no one ever remembered about Derek was that he was human. 

Everyone always focused on the whole ‘werewolf’ thing and expected him to handle shit. And life had definitely shit on Derek. For years. If life could be personified then Stiles would be first in line to kick its ass, purely on Derek’s behalf. Then he might go back for seconds on his own behalf. 

The point was, Stiles had taken on the responsibility of reminding people that Derek was human. That you couldn’t just dump all the garbage situations and tough calls and dangerous enemies on his lap. He deserved softness too. 

Nothing had brought this to Stiles’ mind more forcefully than the first time he saw Derek in a sweater. He always wore leather and drove the Camaro and had stubble before that sweater. Anything he could do to convince the world that he was hard. 

That he wasn’t wearing his dad’s jacket, and driving his sister’s car, and had no where safe to shave. Stiles hadn’t known all these facts about him the first time he’d seen the sweater, but he’d known enough. That one simple article of clothing drove home the point that Derek was human and _people expected too much of him_. 

When a traveling pack stopped in Beacon Hills last week, Scott asked Derek to look into it. It wasn’t a bad idea in and of itself. Derek was Scott’s right hand, he had the Hale name, he was a born wolf, and he had time. It should have been a routine meet and greet followed by a warning not to loiter. 

Instead it had turned out the traveling pack were involved in some sort of supernatural trafficking ring. Derek had realized what was going on, the other werewolves had realized he knew, and an all out fight had ensued. Stiles didn’t know the details, because Derek shrugged it off, but he knew the fight had been intense purely from the damage in the hotel room. 

The fight would have been hard on Derek, but manageable. What really got to him was the people he found. Stiles didn’t know the details of that either because his dad and Derek had both shrugged it off. But he knew it had affected Derek. It had caused a bout of sleeplessness and nightmares. Derek had called his old therapist for an emergency session.

And it wasn’t like the pack didn’t care exactly. It was just that none of them seemed to realize how deeply Derek would be affected by something like that. They seemed to conveniently forget that Derek had also been abused in the past by multiple romantic partners. That seeing the abuse of other people might trigger a response in him. 

He was doing better after his therapy session, but Stiles knew the exposed nerve still ached. So he showed up at the loft with a fuzzy purple blanket tangled up in his arms. It was enormous and it was _soft_. 

Derek was on his couch with a book in hand when Stiles arrived. His brows twitched together at the sight of the blanket. Stiles held it up victoriously. “I brought you a blanket for the loft.”

“Ok.”

And because Stiles was fluent in Derek, he knew that ‘ok’ meant ‘why’. 

“Don’t get me wrong,” said Stiles as he spread the blanket out, “your loft has lots of cool factor.” Derek rolled his eyes. “No really, all the… y’know metal and shit. It’s very trendy. But it’s also not practical.”

Stiles gently settled the blanket over Derek’s legs. “This is practical?” He looked at the fuzzy purple wonderfulness pointedly. 

“Dude, we all need softness in our life.” 

Derek’s eyes shot up to Stiles’ and he narrowed them. Stiles grinned and flopped onto the couch beside him. After a moment Derek shifted the blanket so it covered Stiles too. Stiles snuggled against Derek’s side with a contented sigh. 

“I’m fine, Stiles,” he said against Stiles’ temple. 

“You don’t have to be.” Derek didn’t respond. “It’s ok if you’re… I dunno. Jumbled.”

“Jumbled?”

“Mmm. Messy doesn’t scare me, dude. I’ve been messy my whole life.”

For a long time neither of them spoke. Stiles cuddled against Derek and dozed, because his sleep schedule was a mess and he took what he could get. Derek was relaxed against him, so he couldn’t be too distressed. But Stiles was there if he became distressed. 

Then he kissed the top of Stiles’ head, or more precisely pressed his lips there and left them. Muffled, he said, “Thank you.” Stiles wrapped an arm around Derek’s waist and gave him a squeeze.

* * *

_It’s rotten work_.

Shortly after they started dating, Derek admitted some of his issues with death. Stiles wasn’t sure if it was just a confession or a ‘see how wrongly I love you’ confession. 

Derek told Stiles that the first time he thought he would die, after the rogue alpha (*cough* Peter *cough*) impaled him, Derek’s first thought was ‘I don’t wanna die’. He’d been surprised, because until that point he’d been ok with the idea of dying. After that he started playing ding-dong-ditch with Death’s door to see if he kept having that thought. 

He did.

Until Mexico. 

Because in Mexico, when Derek did die, he looked at Stiles and did not think ‘I don’t wanna die’, but rather ‘I don’t wanna leave him’. He’d died anyway, then he’d left Beacon Hills, and, by extension, Stiles. 

Stiles wasn’t angry about this revelation. He and Derek were two fucked up sides of the same coin. Neither of them knew what to do with their love, let alone someone else’s love for them.

What the revelation did mean was that every time they fought the most recent baddie, Stiles worried. Derek was a self-sacrificing idiot on a good day. If he had a bad day and decided to check and see if he still didn’t want to die… Stiles was terrified. But Derek had promised to stop checking because, he claimed, he didn’t need to anymore. 

That still left him with his impulse to value everyone else’s life over his own. 

In the midst of the fight, Stiles saw one of the creatures stab Derek through the gut so the blade-like arm came out of his back. Vaguely, Stiles was aware of a scream ripping from his throat. Because that _thing_ leaned in close to Derek, so their faces were inches from one another, and Derek stared back, pale faced and unflinching. 

Stiles bashed one of the creatures across the face hard enough that it hit the ground. Humans can experience surges of superhuman strength when someone they love is in danger. Mothers do it all the time for their children. It’s the only explanation Stiles can up with for why that succeeded. 

He ran across the clearing, ignoring the chaos around him, while the creature ran its bladed arm along Derek’s cheek. Derek stared back blankly. All the thing was doing was playing with its food before it killed him. Stiles saw red. Not only was this dickhead planning on killing Derek, he was trying to drag it out. 

It pulled back it’s bladed arm back to jam into Derek’s throat. Stiles ran faster. He pulled his own blade back, glad for the lessons Kira had given him, and jammed it into its leg. 

The thing shrieked bloody murder. The other creatures all froze to stare at their comrade in confusion. Up to that point they had been winning by a large margin. For a long second everyone stared. 

Then Lydia pulled herself together and recited the words that expelled the creatures. Before any of them had regained their senses enough to attack again, they were gone.

Stiles fell to his knees by Derek’s side and pressed his hoodie against Derek’s wound. “Motherfucker,” gritted out Stiles. He wasn’t sure if he meant the monster or Derek. 

“Stiles.”

“Stay still,” he snapped. “Jesus fucking Christ, Derek.” 

“Stiles.”

“We have to- we have to get- Deaton? Melissa.” His hands were shaking. “It’s a supernatural wound, but it’s basically another fucking stab wound.”

Derek’s hand wrapped around Stiles’ wrist. Stiles’ eyes shot to his, which were glassy but warm with affection. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not _fine_. Do you not- this is what killed you last time! No more stab wounds!”

He stared at Stiles for a second, then nodded. “Ok.”

“Scott!” Stiles shouted without looking away from Derek. “Help me move him. We need to get him to your mom. No. We’ll go back to the loft and Melissa can meet us there.”

Scott put a hand on Stiles’ shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “It’ll be all right, dude.”

Stiles shrugged him off. “Just help me.”

By the time Melissa arrived at the loft, Derek had healed significantly. She took care of the wound as best as she knew how, mostly because Stiles kept hovering and asking her why she wasn’t doing something. He stopped after she threatened to kick him out. Derek was fine though. His healing powers were taking care of him as she worked. 

After she had finished, and everyone had finally left, Stiles gathered supplies from the kitchen. Food and water and Derek’s _favorite_ fuzzy purple blanket from the living room. 

Derek watched him silently as Stiles set the food and water on the nightstand by the bed, laid out the blanket on Derek, and snagged his laptop. They could stream bullshit until they fell asleep. He had just set the laptop on the bed and turned to grab a pair of sweats, when Derek clasped his wrist. 

“Stiles.”

“I’m gonna change into some sweats. I can’t lounge in jeans Derek.”

“I’m fine, Stiles.”

“Oh I know you are,” said Stiles, but it sounded more like a threat. Derek’s lips twitched at the role reversal. Stiles slumped onto the edge of the bed with a heavy sigh. “You almost died.”

Derek twisted to wrap an arm around him, but Stiles swatted at him. He didn’t need to see the wince Derek gave to know he was still in pain. “Come ‘ere.” Derek tugged on Stiles’ arm until Stiles shifted so he could gingerly lay on him. “I’m sorry.”

Stiles closed his eyes. He knew Derek was sorry, just as surely as he knew that Derek didn’t go chasing death anymore. That didn’t mean he still didn’t sometimes let death come to him. They were a work in progress.

“I know.”

Derek stroked Stiles’ back for a few minutes. Then he sighed. “I- I know the whole near death experience thing is- hard. You shouldn’t”-

“Oh my god.” Stiles rolled off Derek and went in search of his sweats. “Near death experiences are not a you thing, sourwolf. They’re a Beacon Hills thing or a supernatural thing." Stiles stripped and pulled on nothing but a pair of sweats. When Derek was fully healed tomorrow, they were definitely gonna have some sexy times. 

He returned to bed to straddle Derek, who put his hands on Stiles’ waist and stared up at him like Stiles was the center of the universe. Stiles leaned down and placed a lingering kiss on Derek’s forehead. 

“I think we’ve already established that death isn’t going to get rid of me, Derek Hale. Try all you want, but I’m still gonna be here.” Derek made a soft, almost pained noise. “But you need to know,” he continued softly, “that it’s not just me. No one wants you to die, sourwolf. Lydia, Kira, my dad, Scott, not even Peter wants that. You have to stay alive for all of us, not just me.”

It wasn’t the first time Stiles had made this point. He would keep making it as many times as he had to until Derek understood. There had been too much time on his own for it to be something he easily accepted. 

He nodded. 

Stiles rolled off him so they could cuddle properly. He grabbed his laptop and said, “We’re watching _Great British Bake-Off_.” 

* * *

_Not to me, not if it's you._

Stiles glared at his best friend and brother. Scott shifted from one foot to the other and avoided eye contact. He had no idea what he’d done wrong, and that almost infuriated Stiles as much as what he had done. 

The pack meeting had been going well, or at least as well as they ever go. There was nothing currently terrorizing the town and no one’s powers were glitching. None of the romantic relationships were on the outs even. For them it was practically perfect. 

Then Scott had asked if anyone had any other business. Derek had cleared his throat and mentioned that he had been looking at property lately. Just a few acres.

As though Stiles didn’t know he’d spent the past month with a realtor looking for the perfect spot. Close to town, but with enough land for their shenanigans, and away from bad memories. He’d finally found the spot, or Stiles assumed he had, because Derek hadn’t shown him yet. 

Then Derek had casually suggested he build a house on the property. A pack house. For the pack. Not a permanent residence for everyone necessarily. Just somewhere they could all gather for pack meetings, or training, or celebrations, or whatever. 

As though Stiles didn’t know he’d spent months designing the perfect house with an architect. Stiles hadn’t seen the plans for it yet, but he knew Derek had been working hard on it. 

Then Scott had frowned and shrugged. “I don’t think a pack house is necessary. We’re good as we are.”

And Derek had nodded. “Right. Yeah, that’s fine,” he said quickly, because the idea was too close to his heart to argue with it. 

“It’s not fine,” spat Stiles. “We need a pack house.”

Scott blinked at him and Derek said, softly, “Stiles.”

Stiles stood and glared at his best friend and brother. Scott shifted from one foot to the other and avoided eye contact. “What are we supposed to do without a pack house, Scott? We don’t have anywhere to train new betas. And, fine, you won’t bite anyone else. Whatever. We still collect miscellaneous supernatural creatures like Pokemon! We need somewhere safe to keep them if they get out of control. Somewhere _humane_ and safe.

“What about pack meetings? We can’t keep counting on Dad or Melissa. Look around, dude, we barely fit as it is. We need somewhere bigger to gather. What happens if a pack wants to come visit?”

“Why would a pack want to visit?” Scott interrupted, his face twisted up with genuine confusion. 

“Because you’re a True Alpha and Derek’s a Hale and this is Beacon Hills. We’re not kids anymore, Scotty. People are gonna want to start making alliances with us and I, for one, really want to have other people in our corner. If we had a pack house then we could host them there.”

Scott glanced at everyone else then sighed. “Fine. But I’m the alpha so I should”-

“Are you kidding me?” Stiles cried. Scott’s face got that mulish set to it that meant he was going to insist he was in the right. Stiles geared up to fight it out with him. 

Lydia said, “Put it to a vote.” They turned as one to stare at her. “Who should be put in charge of arranging a pack house for us? We’ll vote on it.” She stared at Scott with icy superiority and said, “You’re a different kind of Alpha, right?” Scott hesitated then nodded.

A quick vote put Derek in charge of the pack house. Partly because everyone knew Scott would try, but it would be years before he ever got around to actually building anything. Derek had time, money, and focus to get it done. 

Derek did his best to pretend he had stoically accepted the responsibility. Everyone knew he was delighted by the turn of events. 

On the way back to the loft, Stiles told Derek he had a surprise gift for him at home. Something he’d been saving specially for Derek. He sighed and asked, “Is it your dick wrapped in a bow again?”

Stiles cackled. “It could be if you wanted. You know my dick is a gift.” Derek hummed noncommittally. “Nah, seriously. I got you something for when you decided to actually start work on the house.”

And when they arrived at home, Stiles dug the gifts he’d gotten for Derek months ago out of the closest. He handed them over, unwrapped because that had seemed like overkill, and shrugged. “Dad helped me pick everything out. It should all be good quality.”

Derek stared at the hard hat and tool belt filled with tools. Absently he said, “Plus you researched it.”

Stiles stuffed his hands in his pockets and shrugged. He rocked back and forth on his heels because Derek hadn’t said anything about the gifts yet. “So, uh, I just thought. Y’know. I figured you’d want to do some of the work yourself on the house. I thought… this would… help.”

Finally, _finally_, Derek looked up with a blinding smile that had Stiles’ breath catching in his throat. He stood and kissed Stiles. “Thank you. It’s more than I deserve.”

“No it’s not,” replied Stiles instantly. 

Derek stared at him with soft eyes as he gripped the tool belt in both hands.“You fought for me.” He lifted the tool belt up slightly as though to remind Stiles what had happened earlier.

Stiles cupped his face in both hands and said, solemnly, “You’re worth fighting for.”

“Am I?” Derek tried to make it teasing, but it was too sincere. It broke Stiles’ heart.

“You are to me.” 

They kissed and Derek never released the tool belt. In between kisses, Stiles suggested he put it on and nothing else. Derek chuckled and called him an idiot. 

And they stayed like that, wrapped up in each other’s love andgrowing contentment with the way their lives were. Together. 


End file.
